


Twists and Turns

by jesus_buck



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s, F/M, Fluff, Pining, Steve likes to braid hair, skinny!Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-05-24 23:29:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14964293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesus_buck/pseuds/jesus_buck
Summary: Steve Rogers didn’t think he was good at much. He was small, thin as a rail, and had a laundry list of chronic medical problems. The one thing he could do well? Braid hair.





	1. French

Steve Rogers didn’t think he was good at much. He was small, thin as a rail, and had a laundry list of chronic medical problems.

The one thing he could do well? Braid hair. 

He knew it was a weird skill to have, that it didn’t help him appear any more “manly”. But Bucky’s sister, Rebecca, had taught him how to braid one morning when Bucky was at work. His small hands with fingers strong from drawing could twist and turn her hair into any shape he wanted. It was a different, temporary kind of art: around for only a day or two before it was shaken loose, never to be seen again. Steve loved it.

When you asked him to braid your hair for the first time, he blushed from the roots of his hair to the collar of his shirt before quietly agreeing. You were Becca’s friend, but had slowly become just as close to Steve as you were to her. At least, that’s what he liked to think.

As his fingers worked deftly through your hair—creating a simple French braid—he found it hard to focus on the strands. You were so close, your back only a few inches from his chest. He was sure you could hear his frail heart threatening to beat out of it. If you could, though, you didn’t say anything.

Instead, he had to focus on steadying his hands while you rambled on about the latest gossip from work, the newest show at the cinema, the boy Becca currently had a crush on. But Steve couldn’t focus on any of that. He was entranced by the way your hair felt as it slipped through his fingers, by the beautiful colors it turned when the light hit it from different angles. By the smell of the sweet perfume gently wafting off of your neck with every beat of your heart.

When he whispered that he was done, you bounced over to the mirror. You were beaming, and Steve swore his heart stopped for good this time. He didn’t hear whatever praise you were heaping on him. How could he, when there was a literal angel in front of him?

And when you thanked him by pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before skipping out the door for work, he knew he was screwed.


	2. Dutch

The second time you ask Steve to braid your hair is even worse than the first.

It’s hotter than hell outside. Summer in Brooklyn was always rough, so people did what they could to stay cool. Still, when Steve walks in to the Barnes’ living room the last thing he expected was to see you standing there in nothing but your swimming costume. Your hands are on your hips, hair loose around your face, foot tapping as you shout at Becca to just hurry up already.

His eyes about fall out of his head seeing you like this, and all he can think is how badly he wants to draw you. To capture the curve of your hips, the angle of your arms, the halo of hair frizzing around your face from the humidity.

He quickly pulls himself together when you turn to face him, but he’s right back to square one when you smile at him.

“Stevie! Becca and I are going to Red Hook for a swim. Would you braid my hair again? Please?” you ask, giving him your best puppy dog eyes. They were completely unnecessary: Steve had to stop himself from saying yes as soon as he heard the words “would you” come out of your mouth.

You both sit at the kitchen table, hair pins and a few ribbons piled nearby. When he asks what you want, you shrug. “Same as last time?”

Nodding, he begins to twist the strands on one side of your head, opting for two braids instead of one. If he was doing twice the work, he’d get to spend twice as long near you… or at least, that’s how he rationalized it.

You didn’t flood him with gossip this time, instead asking after him and if he had any luck finding a job. It took all his focus to answer your questions coherently. Literally all of it, because when he tied off the first braid he began to panic: he’d done a Dutch braid instead of a French.

He stutters our an apology, asking if you wanted him to start over. Touching the finished plait you turn to him, smiling shyly.

“Does it look ok like this?” You whisper.

Steve doesn’t trust himself to speak… if he did, he’s pretty sure he’d confess that he thinks you always look beautiful. So he just nods, hoping you aren’t picking up on the adoration in his eyes.

Becca comes in as he starts the second braid, and he’s secretly grateful that he doesn’t have to worry about putting his foot in his mouth for the time being. But there are still distractions making his fingers fumble: your melodic laugh, the little chills that run down your spine when a piece of hair brushes over your neck, the delicate skin of your shoulders that looks so soft, so touchable…

He ties off the last braid, clearing his throat softly before announcing that he’s finished. As he drops his hands away from you, a finger that he swears is acting of its own accord ghosts over the slope of your neck and trails off over your shoulder.

He feels you freeze for a moment, and so does he, shocked by his own actions. When you turn around you’re worrying your bottom lip with your teeth.

A muttered “Thanks, Steve,” is all he gets before you rush off with Becca, whispering under your breath.

 _Shit_ , he thinks.  _What did I just do?_


	3. Bun

Steve was convinced you hated him, no matter how many times Bucky told him otherwise. So he had stayed far away from the office where you worked, as well as the Barnes’ house, for the past three months.

It was driving Bucky crazy. He’d overheard you and Becca whispering about your feelings for Steve. He’d seen the sadness on your face that started as just a small flicker, but had grown into something that permanently tinged your eyes the longer Steve stayed away. And he knew Steve felt the same.

So he lied, telling Steve that his Ma needed some milk and would he please go grab some and drop it off at the house.

When Steve walked into the kitchen in search of Mrs. Barnes, the last thing he was expecting was for her to be nowhere in sight. Instead, it’s you who’s sitting at the table, dressed in a pair of crisp coveralls and fussing at your hair in a small mirror.  

He’s not sure if he’s forgotten how beautiful you are, or if you’ve somehow gotten prettier over the past few months. But it doesn’t matter, because the sight of you in the soft glow of the morning light has literally stolen the breath from his lungs as he falls into a coughing fit.

You immediately spin around, anger and hurt forgotten as you’re overcome with concern. Gently placing a hand on his back, you slowly rub circles on it as the fit dissipates. The second you are satisfied that he’s ok, you turn back to your mirror and continue working with your hair as if he’s not there. The sudden change in your demeanor is a knife through Steve’s heart. He made this mess. He has to fix it.

“Hiya, Y/N,” he all but whispers, not sure where to start, shuffling his feet. “What’re the coveralls for?”

You speak, gaze trained on the mirror as your hands weave more pins into your hair “I quit my job, Steve. You’d’ve known that if you’d been around. I’m starting at the Naval Yard today. Shipfitter. Gotta do what I can, y’know,” you say bluntly, placing a last pin into your hair.

You move to place your cap on your head but a pin pops out, causing a chain reaction that leaves your hair in disarray. “Damnit!” you cry as you slump back down in the chair, on the brink of tears.

In a split second Steve is standing behind you, fingers untangling the mess you’d made and deftly twisting and turning your hair. “Here, let me. You’ve never been good with putting your hair up”.

To his surprise, you don’t stop him. A few minutes go by in silence before he can bring himself to speak.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, “’M so sorry. I shouldn’t’ve done what I did. I just… I dunno, I figured I crossed a line. Thought you hated me, ‘specially after the way you reacted,” he finishes as he twists the braid into a tight bun on the top of your head, then tucks it underneath your cap. 

As he looks at you in the mirror to make sure it’s sitting perfectly, his hands falter when he sees the tears streaming down your face. 

Wiping the tears from your eyes, you grab your bag off the table before turning to him. 

“I could never hate you, Stevie,” you whisper, squeezing his hand gently,  shooting a sad smile back at him before you drop his hand and walk out the door.

Steve stands there for a minute, dumbstruck. All he can hear over his pounding heart is his soul whispering that maybe - maybe - he still has a chance.


	4. Fishtail

_It’s not a date, it’s not a date_ , had been Steve’s internal mantra since you and had invited him to go with you to Coney Island.  **  
**

He had kind of hoped that you were asking him out. Every day since your first shift at the naval yard two months ago, he had met you at the Barnes’ in the morning. You’d talk while he braided your hair, tucking it securely under your cap when he was done. The conversations ranged from dead serious to utterly silly, sometimes bordering on flirtatious. Even though he looked forward to those mornings more than anything, they were also the hardest part of the day. Each morning he swore he fell a little harder for you, and each day he realized how someone as amazing as you wouldn’t look twice at a guy like him.

Still, he had held out hope. But then he learned Bucky and Becca would be coming as well. It  _definitely_ wasn’t a date.

* * *

He arrives at the Barnes’ early, fully intending to sit with Bucky while you and Becca got ready. He barely has one foot in the door when he’s snatched by a whirlwind of lavender fabric and sunkissed skin, being pulled towards the kitchen as Bucky and Becca laugh from somewhere behind him.

When he finally comes to a stop, he blinks rapidly, sure that the sight in front of him is a hallucination. The pale purple dress hugs your body perfectly, showing off every feminine line. It’s a new style, one of the ones with thin straps that leave your shoulders bare, and damn if it doesn’t knock him for a loop. Spying the matching ribbons on the table, he recovers, and motions for you to sit down with a shy smile.

“What’ll it be today, babydoll?” he jokes as you sit, momentarily freezing when he realizes he said that last word out loud. Thank God, you didn’t seem to notice.

“Surprise me, Stevie,” you hum, leaning into the touch of his fingers on your scalp. He shoves the swell of emotion in his chest deep down, because he has no business feeling  _that_   _good_  when you lean into him.

You keep doing it as he works, making the intricate fishtail braid he’s working on that much more difficult. Steve can’t find it in himself to care. He’s not even sure you know you’re doing it, but it makes him feel wanted. Makes him feel needed… both things he hasn’t felt in a long time.

When he proclaims he’s done and you look in the mirror, your gasp of delight cause his stomach to do backflips. You’re gushing, praising his work, how he’s a magician. He wants to tell you you’re wrong, that it’s not him. That it’s the canvas that’s beautiful, and anything he does will pale in comparison to you yourself.

But he doesn’t, Bucky and Becca bursting in, shouting that they were gonna miss the train if they didn’t stop this beautifying nonsense. 

Grabbing his hand, you bound after your best friend, missing the way Bucky shoots a smug grin at Steve over his shoulder.

* * *

You barely make the train. It’s crowded, and Steve is practically sitting in your lap. Not that he minds. He can feel the press of your leg against his, smell the intoxicating scent of your perfume, and the ever present weight of your hand on his knee grounds him in a way he’s never felt before.

High off of your touch, Steve makes a promise to himself.  _This_  isn’t a date, but if he gets you alone today, even for a moment, he’s going to ask if you’d go on one with him.


	5. Waterfall

Steve really did have every intention of asking you out that day at Coney Island.  **  
**

Even though Becca and Bucky had left him alone with you on more than one occasion, he just couldn’t make the words come out. A little voice at the back of his mind kept reminding him that someone like him would never deserve you. Gorgeous women didn’t go with small, sickly kids from Brooklyn.

Today, he was paying the price of not manning up and asking you a week ago. You’d showed up at his door an hour ago, anxiously bouncing on the balls of your feet, a shy smile on your face. His heart skipped a beat - you were never nervous. Had you gotten tired of waiting for him to make a move? Were you here to ask him on a date?

He thought he’d just been reading into the smiles, stolen glances, and “accidental” brushes of fingers too much, but maybe he hadn’t… maybe you felt something too? Maybe your heart somehow managed to slow down and speed up at the same time when he walked into a room. Maybe you thought of him every moment you were apart, and dreamed of whispered secrets and soft kisses shared in the middle of the night.

“Hey Stevie,” you greet him, smile getting a bit wider when you see him. “I know it’s last minute, but… would you have time to help me with my hair?”

“Sure thing, babydoll,” he grins, opening the door wider and ushering you in with a grand sweeping gesture. The name had become a joke between you… or at least, you thought it was a joke. Steve meant it, even though he had no right to call you his babydoll. But he wouldn’t ever tell you that.

As you seat yourself in a chair, tossing some ribbons and hairpins on the table, he notices you’re wearing a new dress - full and white, perfect for dancing. As he combs his fingers through your hair, he slips into a daydream where he would be the one swinging you around on a dance floor, despite the fact that he can’t dance at all. Dipping you as you giggle, and leaning down to press a kiss to your…

He snaps back to reality, removing his fingers from your hair.

“What’re y’thinkin’ today, Y/N?”

You shift uncomfortably in your chair. “Something special, Stevie. Frank from my old office asked me to go dancin’ with him tonight, and I wanna be worth his while.”

Steve’s stomach plummets. It takes every ounce of willpower he has to not walk out, find this Frank fella, and punch him in the face. Whoever he was, he wasn’t good enough for you. He was going to break your heart. He was… well, he wasn’t  _Steve_. And that was the real problem, wasn’t it?

A soft “Steve? Are you ok?” brings him back, and he forces a smile down at you.

“‘Course I am, Y/N. Just was thinkin’ ‘bout what to do ‘s all. You’re gonna look beautiful,” he says as he begins, reaching for some hairpins to stick in his mouth. This time, there’s no playful banter or serious conversation as he works.

He finishes quickly. The waterfall braid circling your head is simple yet stunning, keeping your hair out of your face while still letting it move freely when you dance. A check in the mirror and a few practice spins has you smiling wide again as you turn to face Steve.

“You’re the best, Stevie,” you whisper, catching him off guard as you press a lingering kiss to his cheek before slipping out the door.

Steve let his fingers drift up to where your lips had been just a moment ago. He should have told you not to go. Asked you to be his girl, because he knew he could treat you better than Frank could.

But Steve had waited too long. And now he has to live with the consequences.


	6. Crown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I’m so sad this is over. I had so much fun writing this, and hope it was fun to read.

Steve Rogers didn’t mope. He may not have had a lot go right in his life, but he absolutely did not mope when things went south. At least, that’s what he told himself as he sat on his worn couch later that night, brain feeding him flashes of you on Frank’s arm. Blushing and giggling as he whispers a joke in your ear. Your head thrown back in laughter as he spins you on the dance floor. A shy smile flitting across your lips as Frank moves in to kiss you goodnight. A cruel trick, reminding him that no matter how he feels about you, there’s no way you feel the same about him. After all, he was Steve Rogers. And Steve Rogers didn’t ever get the girl. Because when it came down to it, what right did a guy like him have to be happy?

Reaching up, he huffs as he brushes his hair out of his face. He had always been good at burying his feelings deep… especially the positive ones. So why was it proving to be so difficult to get over how he felt about you? Would he regret it if he never told you? If he saw Frank whisking you up the aisle in another gorgeous white dress, would his heart break beyond repair? The more he thinks about it, the more he’s sure it would.

* * *

An insistent knock startles Steve out of his fitful sleep on the couch. Grumbling, he gets up off the couch slowly. It’s past midnight, which means that it’s probably Bucky showing up drunk again after a night at the bar.

He opens the door, ready to give his best friend a hard time for waking him. But his words die in his throat when he sees you. You’re curled up in a ball against the door jamb, knees tucked tightly under your chin, shivers wracking your body. Your dress is soaked and your wet hair is half out of it’s braid, sticking to your face and neck. When you look up at him, he’s greeted with tear-stained cheeks and smudged makeup.

“Y/N, what are you doing here?!?” He cries out, helping you to your feet as best he can before ushering you inside. He grabs a well-loved quilt from the back of the couch and tosses it around you: he has to get you warm.

Guiding you into his room, Steve grabs a pair of old pants and a shirt of Bucky’s that he keeps there just in case. Handing them to you, he leaves no room for argument when he speaks.

“You need to get those wet clothes off, Y/N. These’re Buck’s, they should fit you. I’m gonna go, but if you’re not out in 10 minutes I’m comin’ in to check on you.”

Nodding meekly, you turn to strip out of your damp dress and undergarments and slip on the shirt and pants. Using the dress, you do your best to wipe off your ruined makeup. You’d get the stains out later. It didn’t matter right now. Laying your clothes out on the floor to dry, you wrap yourself back in the blanket and slip back into the main room.

Steve is sitting on the couch, fidgeting and looking slightly panicked as his gaze locks on you. Sniffing back the last of your tears, you stumble over to the couch and curl up against him without a word, tears falling freely as you bury your head in his chest.

* * *

Panic overtakes you as you wake up. This isn’t your apartment… these aren’t your clothes… what the hell is going on? Did Frank…?

Bolting upright at the last thought, you frantically take stock of your surroundings. You’re on an old couch. There’s light streaming in a small window, hitting a small hand-picked bouquet of flowers on the table. Your heart rate drops when your eyes sweep to the kitchen, landing on Steve. He’s fussing over the stove, but stills and turns around to face you with the brightest smile you’ve ever seen.

“Mornin’ babydoll!” he calls, waving a wooden spoon in your direction.  “There’s some clothes for ya in my room, and I got some eggs goin’ for breakfast. Go get changed and then we’ll eat.”

You sway as you stand up from the couch, still a bit stiff from a night on it’s flat cushions. As you head into the room to change, you can’t stop wondering what had gotten into Steve. Flowers? Breakfast? And  _where_ had he gotten a clean dress for you?

When you emerge from Steve’s room, he’s humming to himself and plating up some scrambled eggs at the table. Shuffling over to him, your eyes go wide as you take in the sight on the table. Flowers, a pile of hairpins, a comb, a mirror, and  _one_  plate of eggs.

“Steve-”

His jaw sets, and you know that look in is eyes. It only means one thing, so you gulp as you brace yourself for a lecture.

“Y/N, sit down and eat the damn eggs,” he asserts. “And while you’re doin’ that, you’re gonna let me braid your hair. ‘Cause you obviously had a shit date last night. I don’t care if you tell me why it was bad or not. But you’re gonna let me make you feel better, ok?”

Sighing, you plop down in the chair he’s pulled out for you. It’s not worth the fight.

As you eat, Steve starts combing the knots out of your hair, gently rubbing your scalp as he does so. When he begins to braid, your thoughts slip back to last night. How awful the date was, and why you just had to get out of there. When he secures the last pin, you reach for the mirror, only to have your hand swatted away.

“I’m not done yet, babydoll,” he reprimands gently, reaching for the small hand-picked violets in the middle of the table that he probably “borrowed” from someone’s window box.

“Steve,” you plead, wringing your hands in your lap. “I don’t need flowers. Come on, stop. I’m not worth all this.”

His hands stop moving, and in a split second he’s kneeling in front of you, grabbing your hands tightly. His heart is beating so fast he’s afraid it will burst out of his chest, and he can feel tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

“You listen to me, Y/N, an’ you listen good. You are worth every bit of this, and so much more. You’re the most amazing dame I know. You work hard, an’ still make time for your friends. You go outta your way to help others, even when it’s an inconvenience. Your smile lights up a room brighter than the sun, an’ I swear when I look at ya the world stops spinning. So don’t you ever think you’re not worth anythin’ good, because if I could I’d give you everything this world has to offer.”

As he finishes his speech, you stare at him slack-jawed. You knew Steve was prone to outbursts when he felt strongly about something, but this was new. You can see the moment Steve’s mind fully processes what he’s just said, and his face goes pale. He stays put, though, and you can’t tell if it’s because he’s sticking by what he said, or horrified because of it.

So you do the only thing you can: you tell him the truth. Fighting back the emotion threatening to spill out of you, you duck your head.

“Y'know why last night was such shit, Stevie?” You ask, trying to catch his eye. When he refuses to meet your gaze, you gently extract one of your hands from his and cup his cheek, forcing him to look at you. “It was shit because I realized halfway through that I didn’t wanna be on a date with Frank. I wanted to be on a date with you.”

Steve’s eyes go wide, and his breath hitches in his throat as you keep your gaze locked on him. Slowly leaning forward, you give him plenty of time to back away before softly brushing your lips against his.

You pull back when he doesn’t move, afraid you overstepped. But his lips chase after yours, and when he catches them it’s softer and sweeter than any kiss you’ve ever had. You blush as he pulls away, leaning his forehead against yours.

“‘M kinda crazy about you, Steve,” you whisper.

“That’s good,” he hums quietly, “‘cause I’m kinda crazy ‘bout you too, Y/N.”

You sit there for a moment longer, neither one sure what to do next. Clearing your throat slightly, you pull back and shoot Steve a shy smile.

“So, do I ever get to see whatcha did with my hair?” you tease, as Steve breaks out in a brilliant smile that damn near splits his face in half. He stands up and hands you the mirror, and you gasp at your reflection. Your hair is wrapped around your head in beautiful intricate braids, forming a crown strewn with flowers.

“Steve…” you gasp up at him, not sure what to say, eyes wide in wonder.

“You should be treated like a princess, babydoll. An’ maybe… maybe you can let me try to treat you the way you deserve. Maybe I could be your prince?” he hazards.

You laugh, and his face begins to fall. Had that been too cheesy? Bucky always said dames liked that sort of stuff… but you weren’t just any dame.

When you see the concern in his eyes you pull him close, holding his face tenderly between your hands. “I adore you, Stevie,” is all you can say before smiling like an idiot and kissing him again.

* * *

Steve Rogers still didn’t think he was good at much. But he knew he could do two things well: braid hair, and love Y/N like she deserved.

**Author's Note:**

> Y’all, I really shouldn’t be doing this while I have a Poe series and a Bucky series (that I can’t get past the first part of) going on. But, I love 1940s Skinny Steve so much. So here we go! This is going to be a little ficlet series, I hope you enjoy :)


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